


Reunion

by OrangeBlossoms



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: F/F, Family, Gen, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 18:42:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18104213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrangeBlossoms/pseuds/OrangeBlossoms
Summary: Olivia meets her son from another time and Brady becomes acquainted with the mother he never knew.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [engineDriver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/engineDriver/gifts).



It’s the archers’ fault they are separated. Maribelle is sent off to heal and Olivia arcs over towards Sumia, her unofficial flight instructor. As they avoid the longbows, the distance between her and Maribelle grows to the point that when the fight ends, she has to search longer than usual to find her. It doesn’t help that she’s under a tree. Olivia thinks to tease her and ask why she’s been hiding up until Maribelle dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Is everything alright?”

Maribelle’s shoulders tense and she looks over at her. 

“Oh, Olivia. I didn’t see you there,” she says. “I have something I need to tell you.”

Her tone is enough to steal her breath away for a tense moment, but the explanation of what happened over the course of the battle leaves Olivia even more baffled than she had anticipated.

“One son… maybe more,” she summarizes.

“Maybe… more,” Maribelle echoes, equally shaken, a gloved hand coming to settle on Olivia’s arm. Whether the gesture is seeking comfort or offering support isn’t entirely clear, but in both cases the feeling is mutual, so she winds an arm around her waist and rests her cheek against her head. “We’ll talk more in the evening. There are villagers who need attending to. That’s where he went. He’s a healer.”

“Like you.”

Maribelle startles at that, a subtle motion paired with a quiet gasp that might have gone unnoticed had they not been in contact. She smooths away any hints of surprise before answering more soberly.

“Yes, like me.”

Maribelle squeezes her hand, Olivia kissing her on the cheek before her partner heads off to work again. She’s started to use staves herself, but is a novice at best, stepping in as a last ditch field medic rather than a dedicated cleric or mounted healer like Maribelle.

When they reunite in the evening, Maribelle offers a few additional details and she laps them up like a cat given cream. Is it curiosity or concern? Both perhaps. She feels guilty at the realization and the thought that she’s fishing for gossip. It’s easy to think of the boy as a stranger from a different time when she hasn’t seen him, but it leaves a bad taste in her mouth.

“He has your hair,” Maribelle reports, expression souring. “And appalling speech patterns he couldn’t have learned from either of us.”

“I’d like to meet him,” she admits.

“Tomorrow then. I attempted to invite him over myself, but he declined. I suppose we should get this,” she pauses to wave a hand in the direction of their belongings, “sorted tonight.”

They’ve only just consolidated their living spaces, making the timing even more awkward. 

“Does it bother you?” Olivia asks.

“Hmm?”

“Feeling as though it’s… already decided?”

Maribelle shakes her head and Olivia suspects she’s already spent the day ruminating on the subject.

“I don’t see why we need to think of it that way, though I understand the concern,” Maribelle says, patting her hand. “I believe we should proceed as we have been. I am no less dedicated to you today than I was yesterday. This—while strange and unanticipated—does not change that. I propose we view what has happened in that… other time and what will happen in our own now as separate entities.” She breathes in deeply after that mouthful, tucking herself under Olivia’s arm in a way she would only ever do in private. Her next words are softer, less self-assured. “Though I must admit it is somewhat unsettling.”

Her worry is heartening in the sense that Olivia realizes she is not alone in feeling apprehensive. It grants her the strength to fold Maribelle up further in her arms, Maribelle docile in her acceptance of Olivia’s brand of comfort. 

“Brady, hm? I hope we can get along.”

Maribelle chuckles.

“Everyone adores you, darling.”

The sentiment is sweet even if it isn’t true, but she does have an easy grace with friends and acquaintances that so often eludes her partner. As long as they aren’t too intimidating. 

The next day, she finds their supposed future son fits that description all too well. He wears a scowl that rivals Maribelle’s and long black robes that strike an imposing figure. 

Maribelle has corralled him into a quiet location—or as quiet as one can find while still in the middle of camp. His mouth is set firmly in a frown even as she approaches, Maribelle summoning her from a morning assignment taking stock of supplies.

“Yeah, yeah, I know I’m not the prettiest guy around,” he remarks before she can say anything. Maribelle not so subtly jabs at him with the handle of her parasol, the top of her head not quite reaching his hunched shoulder. “I mean, nice to meet ya.” 

Maribelle scoffs and he appears to ignore it. 

“This is Brady, darling, and while I’d love to stay, I have business to attend to. Libra needs all the help he can get at the moment.”

“I’ll go with ya, Ma.”

She glowers at that.

“You already had your shift early this morning and haven’t eaten. You’ll be no help at all if you end up bedridden yourself,” she asserts despite the fact that she’s been working extra time and had a restless night (Olivia as well after all the tossing and turning). “And please, for the love of all that is good, refrain from calling me _that_. ‘Mother’, if you absolutely must.”

He rolls his eyes before muttering to himself as Maribelle takes her leave with a swift kiss on Olivia’s cheek. 

“Well, um, did you want to get lunch then?” she asks, tilting her head for a better view. He would be taller if he had better posture, but the same could be said for herself. 

“Tch. I got things to do. Barely even set up my own digs and all that.”

“Well, alright,” she says, deflated at a failed first attempt. He appears both relieved and ready to be on his way, but she’s not content to give up quite yet. “How about tea tomorrow then? When they do the calls for the late lunch shift maybe?”

He looks over at her with that dour expression, a scar crossing the side of his face. He grumbles and sighs and shrugs. Just as she’s about to backpedal, his brow knits and he nods.

“Sure. Guess I’ll see ya then.”

He turns away, sticking his hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped forward as he trods off glumly. 

Normally, she might find him menacing, but she’s still more curious than anything else. 

She’s seen the ring—his proof of affiliation—that Maribelle says belongs to her family. That is not a talk they’ve had in earnest. Not yet. It’s only been months since they stopped dancing around the thought of a mutual connection, the confession hastened by a narrow escape in the heat of battle. 

In the late evening when fires are lit and Maribelle’s presence warms her side, they talk more about the boy from the future and what it means for the present.


	2. Chapter 2

When mother asks him to sit and talk, he doesn’t turn her down even if a part of him would like to pretend they don’t know each other—because really, they _don’t_.

Ma’s the one who taught him how to cook and play violin and ride a horse (though when’s the last time that’s happened?). She taught him which silverware to use during each course for all the parties that they never went to because who has time for any of that when the world’s coming to an end? Mother’s just a stranger from distant memories and he wonders if they’re half made up at this point, cobbled together from foggy images and Ma’s stories. Neither of them are the ones he actually knew in either case. 

But when she invites him to tea with that soft smile and softer voice—nothing like how strident Ma could get—he grumbles and agrees and packs up a little bundle of that fancy junk that Ma likes because he doesn’t know what kind of tea mother drinks, but maybe their taste is similar. And anyhow, Ma also taught him not to show up empty handed and he might look like a brute, but he isn’t an _ingrate_. 

Wet grass from an earlier downpour squelches underfoot, but he’s not surprised their tent’s in impeccable condition. The structure is situated far enough away from any of the main conduits that travel through camp to have avoided getting dirtied by foot traffic—probably Ma’s doing. She was the one who gave him directions during their shared morning shift along with a few calculated questions that he’s been stewing over on top of everything else.

By the time he arrives, mother’s already prepared a fancy spread herself. It doesn’t sit quite right to be walking up to a pretty little table set for tea in his muddy boots, but the assortment of pastries and sandwiches beats whatever gruel disaster chef Kjelle served that morning in the mess tent and his stomach’s been growling after working right through lunch. 

She stands when she notices him and he thinks about turning around. It’s not that he’s a coward, but he doesn’t see the point. Who’s this for anyway? Her, him, Ma? But she starts talking and it’s already too late.

“Brady, I’m so glad you came,” she says with a warm tone that cuts through the damp and dreary weather, “Maribelle’s been so busy in the healing tents that I’ve been having tea on my own lately.”

He can tell he’s glowering even if he doesn’t mean to, so he tries to at least say something nice in return.

“Uh… thanks.”

So much for that.

It doesn’t seem to bother her as she gets right to pouring the tea. 

“Please, take a seat. Help yourself.”

They sit in silence for a bit, sipping their tea as he eats. Belatedly, he remembers to hand over his gift. 

_“For you and Ma.”_

She watches him and it’s irritating partly because he doesn’t know what it means. Ma he can read for the most part and the rest of the time she speaks her mind so forcefully there’s no guessing required. With mother though, it’s just a bunch of questions. Is he a disappointment? Did she expect someone more like Inigo who at least (sometimes) speaks the part? He stuffs those thoughts back to a place they can’t bother him and decides to start the conversation himself.

“So, uh what do I call you anyway?”

She blinks, her hands curled around her cup in a way that Ma would probably have a conniption over. 

“Is it strange to call me Olivia? What did you call me—um the other me—during your time?”

“Hardly knew you during my time. Mother, I guess.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” she murmurs before worrying at her lip. 

He shrugs. The implication was already there that their other selves shuffled off their mortal coils, but maybe it was worse to learn you bit the dust even earlier than you thought. 

“‘S’alright. Ma told me all about you. Actually, she wouldn’t shut up about you. So graceful, sweeter ‘n anyone deserved, a true—“

“Oh, th-that’s alright!” she stammers, waving a hand. “I know how Maribelle um, your mother can be with compliments.”

“I’m surprised she never got that statue she wanted to commission of you put in the gardens.”

“Oh gods, she didn’t—“

“Nah, but she would’ve. With wings and everything, I’ll bet.”

He gestures with his hands as if he’s got his own set of shiny, white cherub-sized pinions attached to his back and she giggles in response. The sound sets him on edge until he realizes she’s laughing with him.

“Oh gosh, she would, wouldn’t she?” she says with a fond smile. “Though sometimes I’m never sure how serious she is when she says things like that.”

“That’s why you don’t second guess. It only makes her more stubborn.” 

She nods in understanding and they drift into a lull. Mother’s the one to break it this time.

“So, Maribelle mentioned there are more of you?”

His face screws up, confused by the question.

“Kids? Yeah, sure.”

He doesn’t elaborate.

“Do you have any siblings?” she asks and sure enough she’s more curious about something that might not even be than the reality of Brady right in front of her.

“I think I’m not s’pposed to say. Besides, no knowing who might’ve made it or not,” he explains grimly. So far he’s seen Lucina and Kjelle and the rabbit, but no word about anyone else.

“Oh.”

He tosses back the last of his cup and shifts to get up. He figures he’s done his time and he’ll find ways to keep busy so at the next invitation he’s got a ready excuse.

“Wait, Brady! You just got here. Tell me more about yourself o-or um I can tell you about me, if—if you’d like.”

She lays a hand on his arm and it’s a gentle pressure, but might as well be a vice grip with the way it stops him in his tracks. He looks away as his mouth twists into a frown.

“Uh sure, but there’s not much to know,” he warns as he lowers himself back into his seat.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s true at all,” she says as she refills his cup. “What do you like to do in your free time?”

He scratches the back of his neck.

“I guess I’m half-decent at playin’ the violin.”

Her eyes light up at that and she leans forward.

“I’d love to hear you play,” she says and he can almost believe her. 

“Well, maybe someday,” he rumbles, unaccustomed to the request, but he can be personable, too. “Ma said you were a real showstopper of a dancer. What’s it like to wow an audience?”

“A showstopper? I don’t know about that,” she demurs, gazing down into her cup. “But it’s good to know I kept dancing even if…”

She trails off and shakes her head. Dancing is not something he ever picked up or would have even if he were old enough when she was still around. Figures he’d be born with two left feet and bad form to boot. Inigo was always the more athletic one. 

Olivia traces the rim of her cup with a finger before her face settles again.

“You don’t have to feel bad,” he tells her. “I came ‘cause it was the best way to help. Not tryin’ to relive childhood or nothin’ like that.”

“I know, but—“

“Just pretend I’m a regular ol’ healer,” he advises even if his damn lip wobbles.

“Oh, Brady,” she says, reaching across the table to place her hand over his, all the dancer jewelry she’s wearing reflecting the light so sharply that it causes him to blink away a stinging sensation. 

Him and Inigo might be like night and day, but the one thing they have in common is how weepy they can get. Trying to hide his sniffling behind a sip of tea only causes him to splutter and make a bigger mess of himself. Mother has a handkerchief in hand faster than he can blink. He takes it and uses it for its intended purpose, mother standing up to rub his back as she utters reassurances.

It’s then he realizes he’s sniveling into a handkerchief that Ma stitched herself and that only sets him off worse. That’s of course when _she_ finally shows up.

“Heavens, what happened here?”

Olivia shushes her before saying something all gentlelike to him that he doesn’t quite catch between the blubbering. Maybe he’d be annoyed by the doting if he had ever heard anyone shush Ma of all people before. 

“It’s alright. We were just talking. I shouldn’t have pried,” mother explains, a flash of guilt crossing her face.

He blows his nose and Ma winces.

“It _has_ been quite the couple of days, hasn’t it?” she remarks.

He’s still sniffling, but he nods along with mother who smiles at him and even that’s enough to make him want to bawl his eyes out. Ma fishes out another handkerchief that he takes with a muttered thanks just as mother stands up with a start.

“Oh, Maribelle! I’ll heat up some water for you!” 

Ma nods in that gracious way of hers before she pulls up a third chair, her partner disappearing back inside their tent. She raises a brow, evaluating him.

“Well, as I mentioned earlier, how you would like to proceed is up to you, darling. Olivia and I are already in agreement, but will respect your wishes,” she pauses, continuing in a softer tone, “I will say that I am pleased you decided to come by after all.” 

He thinks it over a moment.

“Yeah, me, too.”

Now that he’s got all that out of his system, there’s a lightness in his chest, a cautious hope even.

“Good,” she says with the kind of finality he’s come to expect. “Now, about your language—“

“Aw, ya gotta be _kiddin’_ me, Ma!” he cries, throwing his hands in the air. “There ain’t nothin’ wrong with the way I talk!”

“See? That’s _precisely_ what I mean!” she exclaims. 

By the time mother returns, a small war has erupted, lines drawn somewhere between them, possibly across the plate of scones. Mother deftly moves the conversation back to violin performance and Ma surprisingly doesn’t bat an eye at the shift. When he leaves for the evening, sent along with a bundle of sweets he plans to share with the others from his time, he begins to think that maybe things will turn out alright.

**Author's Note:**

> I did this as an exchange with [engineDriver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/engineDriver/pseuds/engineDriver). Please check out her half of the exchange [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18077240) if you're at all interested in found family SoV content! She wrote some lovely platonic Genny & Sonya for me.


End file.
